


I'll Only Watch You Leave Me Further Behind

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s gotten it twisted, somewhere along the way.  It’s never been about love or sexual attraction or even about impressing each other with football tricks or showing off excessively fast and expensive sports cars.  It’s never been about that at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Only Watch You Leave Me Further Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pimpam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/gifts).



> My friend requested some angsty Criska. I've never written Criska. I've never written either of these guys before, so. This is experimental for me. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s simple enough to ask him. It’s not like he’s going to say no. Still, for whatever reason, something deep down inside makes Cristiano fear, just for one second, that he’ll be turned down. It’s not like it's even a date or anything like that. It’s a drive. Just a drive. Cruising. It’s meaningless. And yet he’s more nervous to ask than he’s ever been taking a free kick or going in for a potentially messy tackle with a biased referee breathing down his neck. He’s more nervous than he’s felt in ages. But then again, he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. Or ever, maybe. He’s not exactly sure. Pinpointing specific emotions was never his strong suit. Give him a ball, an expanse of space, and a target and he’s a precision machine. It’s interpersonal connections that leave him adrift at sea.

How did this even happen to him? One day he’s king of the pitch, top of the world, untouchable. The next day he’s demolished by a soft smile, a kind word, and the unrelenting want to lock lips with Kaká. Of course he’d noticed the other man, on pitch and off, and there was no denying the growing respect he had for the Brazilian. But it wasn’t just a feeling of friendship or respect that drew Cristiano to him. No. Something else drew him near. Like a moth to a flame, except that flame burned hotter and brighter and more clearly than anything he’d ever seen before. Maybe it’s his smile. There’s something in it, Cristiano decides. It’s so innocent, so pure, and when he smiles Cristiano feels like someone has set his whole soul on fire. And when he laughs at one of Cristiano’s stupid jokes (or at anything at all, really) Cristiano swears it’s like angels singing or something equally mushy and stupid. And when he takes off his shirt, stripping down in the changing rooms after practice or a match, and his skin is battered by hard work and damp with sweat and stained by grass, well…

Cristiano’s mind goes to dangerous places. 

And he knows it’s wrong. He’s never been given any encouragement, no indication that what he’s feeling is even reciprocated. But that only makes his emotions more powerful. So what if Kaká doesn’t love him too? Well, fine. He can fix that. He’s Cristiano Fucking Ronaldo. The entire world loves him. Or at the very least, the entire world wants to fuck him. And Kaká will too. All Cris has to do is be himself, play his familiar game, and that’s it. It’s only a matter of persistence. No need to be shy now.

So he approaches him, casual as the day is long, sunglasses already on even though they’re still in the changing room after practice. Everyone else has dispersed about, no one is paying them much attention. It’s the perfect opportunity to talk up his latest indulgence, brightly painted with all the bells and whistles. Cristiano maybe rambles a little as he talks about his new car. Nerves make him do that. He doesn’t fumble. He just rambles. And Ricardo nods along as he dresses, oblivious to the fact that Cristiano is watching him with keen eyes behind those tinted lenses, ignorant to the show that he’s putting on as he leisurely changes into his street clothes.

“But I need to test it out. You know, test out it’s capabilities. Why buy a fast car if you drive like an old lady, yeah?” Cristiano’s voice hitches slightly. Ricardo doesn’t notice this as he puts on his underwear.

“Driving like a maniac through the streets of Madrid is hardly a good idea, Cris.” He clicks his tongue softly, but he’s smiling still as he sends his teammate a look over his shoulder. 

Cristiano frowns slightly, scolded. But Ricardo hasn’t said no. Not yet, at least. “That’s why I need you to come with me, Ricardo. Let’s be serious here, we both know you won’t let me speed or cut any corners or get into street races.” His smirk returns by this point, confidence restored as the other man turns to face him. “Come on, Ricky. Let’s go cruising together. There’s so much of this country we haven’t see yet. I promise, nothing reckless. I’ll drive slow, like I’m going for a Sunday drive."

There’s something in Cristiano’s expression that Ricardo notes. He can’t name it, and even if he could, he wouldn’t dare say it out loud. Instead he does what he always does when Cristiano asks something of him. He says yes. In fact, his whole face lights up with one of his electric smiles, like he’s been waiting his entire life for Cristiano to ask him to go driving with him. 

Cristiano’s heart aches when Ricardo smiles. His heart’s been aching a lot lately.

They agree to meet up after the next day’s practice session. They walk to the parking lot together, making a beeline for the auspicious vehicle, pausing to scrawl the signatures on tee-shirts and photographs for fans, shielding themselves from the ever-present members of the press as best they can.

Once they’re in the car and their seatbelts are securely fastened, Ricardo asks, “Where are we going?” 

Cristiano almost doesn’t hear his voice over the purr of the engine as they peal out of the parking lot, escaping the intruders with telescopic lenses with a great deal of dramatic flair. He never does anything by half, including making an exit, no matter who is riding shotgun with him, and truthfully with Ricardo at his side he’s more tempted than ever to make some sort of grand statement of control. It’s foolish and he knows it, but that temptation will always be there.

He doesn’t spare Ricardo a glance until they’ve cleared the swarm of photographers and reached a clear stretch of road. Only then does he cock his head to the right to stare at the other man. Ricardo’s put on his sunglasses in the interim, sitting back in the black leather seat, not quite comfortable but not disarranged either. Cristiano purses his lips together, eyes back on the road.

“Wherever you like,” he answers. There’s nothing sarcastic or sinister in his voice. In fact, the level of sincerity there almost startles Cristiano himself. He wasn’t expecting to hear that tone coming out of his mouth.

Ricardo’s laughing response reminds him of a bird. It’s so bright, so cheerfully out of place. It’s unlike anything he’s ever heard before and he absently switches off the radio so that maybe he can hear it better next time. As it is, Cristiano’s missed something Ricardo said, something lost in the throbbing bass of his customized sound system. He feels like an ass for having to ask Ricardo to repeat himself but such is life.

“You have a lovely car, I said.” Ricardo replies with a smile. Cristiano’s eyes fix on the road still, but he can hear it in his voice. It’s that earnestness that’s inescapable with him. He never does anything by halves either. Everything he says he means. “But mind the posted speed limits, Cristiano. I’d hate for you to get a ticket.”

Anyone else and Cris might bark out some snide comeback or at the very least roll his eyes. He does neither though. Instead he eases his foot off the accelerator, just enough that they’re right at the speed limit again. He’s rewarded Ricardo’s cluck of approval. Smiling slightly, he gives a sideways glance to his passenger. “You never told me where you want to go, Ricky.”

“Turn left on the next street.” Cristiano raises his immaculate eyebrows a little, expecting a destination, not directions. “There’s a place I know that you should see. It’s beautiful, Cris. You’ll love it there.” 

Cristiano wonders vaguely how far a drive it is before recalling that he’s got a full tank of gas and his favorite person at his side, so why should he care? Again, his confidence blooms. The afternoon sun beats down on the sports car, reflecting off the gold bracelet he’s wearing, heating the vehicle excessively. He turns on the AC. “Is it far?”

Ricardo shakes his head, humming softly along to music no one else can hear. It’s a choir of angels, probably. “It’s a ways. But it’s worth it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Directions are given as often as needed. It seems that wherever they’re headed, Ricky knows the destination and has memorized the route by heart. Cristiano’s own heart swells a little. They’re headed to someplace secret, someplace special. It means something to Ricky. That means it means something to him, too.

At one point, Ricardo reaches over to adjust the air conditioning in the center console and his hand brushes against Cristiano’s, placed comfortably on the gear stick. He could almost swear they both have goosebumps after that, but it might just be the AC.

As they make their way further and further from the city proper they fall into a strange, peaceful, relaxed sort of silence that Cristiano is almost reluctant to break. It seems sacred somehow, the way the only sound between them is the constant droning engine throbbing in time with their beating hearts. Cris can hear his own, so loud in his ear it’s like a timpani. He’s sure that if only he closes his eyes he can hear Ricardo’s beating too, that same pattern, steady, then revving up along with the car, then evening out as they slow to hug a curve. There’s no way his heart isn’t pounding too. It’s too raw. The pitch is too perfect.

“Just ahead, Cris. Up there on the right.” Ricardo’s voice breaks through their heartbeats again, a long finger extended to point to a small clearing where other cars have pulled over too. Cristiano’s brows furrow. Where they hell are they? What the hell is all this? How long did they even drive?

He parks the car, pausing to shoot Ricky a questioning look before killing the engine. Ricky meets his gaze with a look that simply urges Cristiano to trust him. “It’s just a short walk from here. Come on.” He removes his seatbelt before Cris can say anything and waits patiently for his friend to join him.

It’s an unfamiliar area, for sure. They’ve travelled for quite aways, taken all sorts of turns and out-of-the-way detours Cristiano’s never heard of before and wound up in an area that isn’t quite the suburbs and isn’t quite the countryside either. There are houses in the distance, subdivisions either, but the immediate surroundings are quiet, untouched, and distinctly beautiful. Immediately before them is a flat expansive little meadow dotted with thousands of colorful wildflowers. Pinks, purples, yellows, blues, all mingled together and mixed into a tableau of color and light. The late afternoon sun has turned the sky a surreal shade of orange. There are hardly any clouds and no wind to speak of. The air that surrounds them is still, warm, enveloping like a blanket. Other people populate the field, lovers spread out on picnic blankets, children toddling through the waist-high grasses, plucking at the technicolor blooms which surround them. It’s idyllic, the quintessential pastoral scene right before their eyes. It’s unreal. It’s out of this world.

“Isn’t it heavenly?” 

Cristiano has to admit, it’s all very picturesque. Still, he isn’t quite expecting Ricardo to light up like this at the sight of a field of wildflowers. Hell, if he’d known Ricky liked flowers so much he would’ve had bouquets sent to him everyday. “Yeah. This is really pretty.” He’s not trying to downplay nature, per se, but come on. It’s a bunch of flowers.

Ricardo turns back to Cristiano again, having been a few paces ahead of the younger man. When he smiles, Cristiano notes the dimples in his cheeks. Cristiano’s heart aches all over again. “I come here sometimes when I want to see God. This place is a perfect example of God’s presence on Earth.”

Of course it is. It’s always God. Not that Cristiano doesn’t believe. He does, really. But he also appreciates the material, the here, the now. And he enjoys brevity. Cracking a smile, he reaches to tug playfully at Ricardo’s sleeve, hoping to coax him out of this religious speech. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ricky. If you want to see God, all you need to do is join me on the pitch.” Or in bed. Either option would work equally well.

Bless his heart, Ricardo manages to ignore him. “Look at this field, Cris. Have you ever in your life seen colors like this all together in one place. It’s like a painting. It’s like a tapestry. And it’s real. We’re looking at it now, here on Earth. This is what paradise looks like. And we’re in it.”

Ricky’s whole face lights up as he speaks, sunglasses pushed up into his hair now as he stares out over the field and inhales and exhales deeply. His elation is palpable, the way he seems so excited and happy at right at home, here in the presence of his God. Cristiano has to avert his eyes. He’s overcome quite suddenly by guilt, by the feeling that whatever sacred connection he’s felt for this man can’t ever compare to whatever is happening now before his eyes between Ricky and the flowers and the sky. 

Sheepishly, he opens his mouth to speak then shuts it quickly, silenced by Ricardo’s voice. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw this place. A year ago, I was alone. I’d never felt so lonely. It’s a funny thing, you know, feeling so isolated in a place like Madrid, feeling all alone when you play for Real Madrid, surrounded by teammates and friends. I wasn’t unfulfilled or anything, I was just… lonely. But of course, we're never really alone, you know. God is always with us, always. And God aids the faithful, you know. So I closed my eyes one day, and I listened to God. I had emptiness within me that I hadn’t felt before. But I closed my eyes, Cris, and I prayed for an answer. And the answer came. I wanted to explore the world, to find beauty in all of its incarnations, and I was called to this field. God wanted me to see these flowers.” He smiles, eyes closed for a long moment. Cristiano can’t help but stare at him, wishing he had the nerve to rush forward, full speed ahead, and throw his arms around Ricky and kiss him again and again, and tell him that God wants them to be together now and always, so there. “God wanted you to see these flowers, too. He knew you needed to see this place now as much as I needed to a year ago. That’s why we’re here now, so you can see something that will take your breath away.”

“Consider my breath taken.”

Ricardo laughs again, tilting his head to take Cristiano in. After regarding him for a few moments, he gives a nod, then slings his arm around the other man’s shoulders. If he notices any change in his friend, he chooses not to comment. “We should picnic here sometime, Cris. The kids would love it here too, I think.” 

The kids are so young, Cristiano is sure it would all be wasted on them, but he finds himself nodding in easy agreement. “Next time, Ricky.”

What else can he say? Of course they’ll take the kids. They’ll take Ricky’s wife, too. And they’ll be friends, because for all the times they’ve held each other and kissed each other’s cheeks and whispered encouragement and affection, it’s never been about them. It’s been about the game or the team or the children or God. Or human connection that isn’t just about sex. He’s gotten it twisted, somewhere along the way. And he sees that now in the warm curve of Ricardo’s friendly smile. It’s never been about love or sexual attraction or even about impressing each other with football tricks or showing off excessively fast and expensive sports cars. It’s never been about that at all.

Contentedly grinning, the Brazilian takes hold of his hand so suddenly, Cristiano fears his heart might leap out of his chest. Before he can protest, Ricardo is leading them back to the car. “We should head back. We’ll be late for dinner. Caroline is cooking, if you’d like to join us.”

Cristiano’s sordid fantasies of somehow seducing him on the drive home gone out window now, even though Ricardo hasn’t let go of his hand. He fishes for his keys in his pocket and unlocks the doors, Ricky’s cue to drop his hand. He takes a full thirty seconds to himself before walking around to the driver’s side and climbing in. Those thirty seconds are enough to remind him that sometimes your passenger isn’t your co-pilot. Sometimes they’re just along for the ride. “I’ll drive you home, Ricky.” 

Ricky smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired partly by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOaD29iG2AY).


End file.
